


Different Than The Rest

by NamelessNerd



Series: Agent!Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: ASSASSIN!DEAN, AU, Assassins & Hitmen, Government AU, M/M, One-Shot, Priest!Cas, Supernatural AU - Freeform, government agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelessNerd/pseuds/NamelessNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean is a government assassin, and Castiel is the one who made him pause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short oneshot AU I wrote one night, that I said I'd post. Hasn't been Beta-ed. Might write a few other pieces in this verse. I really encourage reviewing, it lets me know if I should write more of this.

The first time Agent Winchester had seen Castiel Novak's folder, it was rather unimpressive. The plain manila folder was thin and bland, and had almost gone unnoticed in the pile of mail that Dean had grabbed that morning. Which in retrospect, would have been very bad, considering Sammy hadn't moved out yet. But at the last moment Dean saw it and snatched it up along with a bagel as he went around back to the garage.

Since that first debriefing letter, the folder had grown considerably. The small folder in his briefcase had gone from barely worth his notice, to dominating his life. Maps and photos and reports had consumed the desk of his motel room, to the point where he couldn't find the keys to the Impala without digging through stacks of letters and print-outs. At first, it had been that the man was impossible to find. The small town in Pennsylvania had become immense to him, a constantly changing playing field. It was so different than the large cities and corporations and mafia lairs that Dean was used to. It seemed to him like every person in this fucking place wore the same ugly sweaters and baked the same cookies and (thank God) pies. In the week and a half he had been there, he had stumbled upon more homeless shelter benefits and PTA fundraisers than he could count. And Novak seemed to attend every God-damned one. 

It was impossible to figure out what days the events were. It wasn't like they had advertisements or flyers, no that would have made sense. The entire town seemed to run by word-of-mouth, and it had only taken Dean two days to figure out that the the type of crowd he was looking for didn't frequent the village's one bar. So, after a suggestion from Bobby back in Washington, he had taken a different approach.

And it was that approach that led him to his first contact with Novak. It wasn't intended, of course. You were never supposed to make contact with the target, it drew unwanted attention. But at the same time, he drew attention everywhere he went in town. He was the outsider. The guy in the jeans and Black Sabbath tee that seemed so out of place. Dean wasn't used to being the center of talk. That was the whole point of him. No one ever looked twice at the mechanic. No one ever looked twice at him.

And for his entire stay in the town, he never noticed that he was being watched by ever person there. He didn't realize it until he walked into the local church and found a pair of bright blue eyes staring him down from across the pews. He stared back, unblinking for a few moments. The face plastered on his motel wall. The face that had slowly been stacking up in his briefcase. The face that he had been playing a damned game of Where's Waldo with for the last week and a half. The face that was wearing the tight-collared black shirt of a pastor. Aware of the growing number of eyes on him from the Sunday church-goers, he quickly took a seat in the back, a small inclination of his head apologizing for interrupting. Dean then proceeded to politely wait out the next two hours of the service, letting his mind drift as he watched the sermon, and more importantly, the person delivering said speech.

Pastor Novak, or Castiel, as the town informally called him, seemed very well-liked by everyone. The town had opened up a lot more after he had attended a service, everyone seemed pretty tied to the church. The folder hadn't contained a home address, which was somewhat peculiar and had made his life much more of a hassle than it should have been. But that was soon explained as he learned Novak lived in an adjoining complex to the church. Go figure. After that piece of knowledge, the mission should have been pretty easy. Except that the damned man was never alone. He wasn't married, thankfully enough for Dean (he didn't want to have to deal with avoiding family members to do his job), but he was still always surrounded by people almost day and night. He manned confession and was there to help anyone that seemed to need help. Which prodded Dean to wonder who the hell wanted the man dead.

As another day passed, Dean noted that while Novak was always busy with people, he wasn't exactly a social person. While he was loved and admired, it didn't seem to Dean like his target had many very close acquaintances. Sometimes a phone would emerge, but the conversations never lasted very long. A bit of research revealed that his family had long since moved on to different towns and cities. His two brothers, Michael and Raphael ran companies in New York. His sister Anna was a designer for a private fashion company in Los Angeles. Both his parents had passed on when he was little. 

With each new tidbit of information, the folder on his desk got larger, with still no valid reason anyone should ever want the man dead. But he supposed it wasn't his job to ask questions.

**

There was a sniper rifle in his hotel drawer. An automatic in his briefcase. A small vial of poison in his mini fridge. Latex gloves in his closet. It would be simplicity itself. There was no way in Hell that it would take very long. Heck, he should have already been done by now. Much longer and Bobby would start to ask questions. Any longer than that and Sam would start trying to research the Mechanics convention Dean was supposedly at. 

Tuesday, Dean thought as he stared at Novak's schedule. Not a bad day to die. 

After that hurdle had been made, his hands had seemed to act by themselves. Not too soon after that he found a few church pamphlets on his bedside table, and a time and place penciled in to have dinner with the guy. Now that it was obvious Dean was an outsider anyways, discreet didn't matter. And a slow acting poison would work the best, he supposed. He could always mask it as a previously unnoticed heart problem or late-onset medical condition. It wasn't bloody. It wasn't messy. Just, simple.

**

The diner had been small. Novak had ordered pie. He had even left to go say hello to another table. The perfect opertunity. Dean couldn't seem to move his hand.

**

Castiel liked pie too. Apple, he had commented, was the best type of pie there was. "Closest we can get to Eden," he had joked. Dean had smiled. After all, it was polite. And the pie was great. Small towns seemed to have the best diners. More mainstream places could never get it right. The flakiness of the crust, the tartness of the filling. He bet Castiel could make a great pie. 

**

Castiel had always wanted a cat. Dean had never been much into animals himself, but something about the way Castiel looked at them when he worked with the Shelter.  
"Animals can't judge you, they have untarnished souls. Innocent. They want nothing more than to be happy and content with you. All they want is love, is company. Animals are pure, but broken. Sometimes broken people need broken animals."  
Sam had always wanted a dog. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad to have one around. Brochures on breeds and care snuck into pockets and folders of his briefcase.

**

Castiel loved poetry. It was a bit too girlish for Dean. Love and pain and mushy feely stuff. No chick flick moments for him, thank you very much. But Castiel seemed to have poems etched inside every crevice of his mind. He would work pieces into his sermons and services. He called music poetry once, when he had seen Dean's Led Zeppelin tee.  
Each of those lyrics, each of the lines was poetry. Dean wondered whether or not Cas listened to Metallica or Black Sabbath or Led Zepplin. 

**

Cas had the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen. He doesn't remember if he ever actually stopped to really look at them. So deep, so many shades and hues of blue. It was like the ocean, or the sky, or the rivers or lakes. It was everything combined. Like, if you were staring at the reflection of clouds in the water. They were so clear, so sharp. It was like if someone had gone in and photoshopped light into them. At every second of the day Cas was smiling or laughing. He was always so happy. He didn't seem to have a care in the world.

**

Cas wasn't a threat to the nation. He couldn't be. What in the world could one person do to upset so many people? The worst thing on his police record was a parking ticket from when he was 16. It had to be a mistake, it must have been a mistake. 

It had to be.

**

Intel surveillance. That was what it was. Getting to know the target and his habits. A lazy mid-day lunch, complete with yet more pie. At one point Cas's nose was smudged with ketchup, and it took Dean's every will not to lick it off. It was intel, damn it. Nothing more.

No wife. Or girlfriend for that matter. God came up more than once over the afternoon. Cas was so...devout. So enthusiastic. Every word out of his mouth was full of energy and, Dean hated to say it, holiness. It was impossible to frown while he was talking. The pastor lit up the room with his grace and charm. 

Who the holy hell would put a warrant out for his head?

**

Two weeks in, Bobby called. He wasn't too happy. "Get your God-damned ass in gear boy, Sam's called twice, and soon Washington will be knockin' about too." 

Dean was running out of options. 

**

He had to know. What constituted Cas's bounty? He wasn't a serial killer, he was a fucking pastor, or a priest, or whatever the difference was. He wasn't a threat, he wasn't.

**

The door hadn't been open. Dean felt wrong, for the first time in his life, as he picked the lock. The suburban house was so different, home-y in a way that Dean had never gotten the chance to experience. He smiled softly to himself. It was the sort of place Sam would settle down in, the agent predicted. A wife, a dog (a big one, maybe a lab or a Saint Bernard or something), and two kids. He'd be a big-shot lawyer, they'd be a family. Dean wouldn't get that, ever.

The door clicked open.

The pictures on the wall showed a family before conflict. He recognized a younger version of Cas, next to his sister and brothers. A mom or dad wasn't anywhere in those pictures. Absent parents? Dean could relate. 

Cas wasn't home, he of course had checked beforehand. His target was off at a Wednesday night youth service. The bedroom was empty, the bed made and the closet full of neatly-ironed clothes. The bathroom spotless, no poisons no illegal drugs. Normal. 

Dean moved onto the neighboring room, the study. Books were scattered around on various tables. Papers littered the ground, a stark contrast from the cleanliness of the rest of the house. As he walked in a bit further, a flash of manila caught his eye, his vision trailing towards the desk.

And Dean was laughing. A light chuckle of disbelief at first, and then it elevated as he looked closer. He then was laughing harder than he could ever remember. Full blown hysterics. 

***

As he flipped open the cover of the overstuffed manila folder, between the maps and charts and police profiles, he could see his own face staring right back at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a nice, white-picket-fence dinner with the local priest.

When Dean finally stopped the laughing, he couldn't seem to catch his breath. The thoughts were coming too fast now, everything blurring together in a string of hazy ideas and new found facts. Cas...Castiel...Novak. He couldn't be anything other than his Cas. He couldn't be anything else besides the small town pastor who lives on his own. How could he have missed something that big? It was impossible, his mind was racing. He couldn't jump to conclusions, no not yet. It wasn't...

But everything had been there. Digging down further revealed maps and statistics. And then had come the bombshell.

His name, in bold and italicized print. Dean J. Winchester, age 27. Underneath the name was him, in every sense of the word. From his car, to his credit card number, to his passport information (from all countries). His phone number and home address; and it made Dean's blood freeze to see Sammy's name there too. 

It couldn't be right, it couldn't be. But what other explanation was there, it war right there in the damn folder.

***

After that point in time, Castiel Novak just seemed to make so much more _sense_. Every one of Cas's quirks, every one of his mannerisms just seemed to...fit somehow. He was amazed he didn't see it before. The separation between him and his family. The small, half head tilt at some of the things that confused him. The stiffness of his back.

Dean had seen thousands of people in his life, spied on hundreds. Before Dean's birth, his father had been in the army for a few years, in Vietnam. Dean knew the signs of a soldier well, he was raised by one. He was raised to be one. 

Cas was a fighter. It wasn't obvious, and it was damn well hard to spot. But two days after the 'revelation', it was crystal clear. 

***

Dean had played a lot of poker in his lifetime. Before this whole thing had started, he'd even hustled for a while, to raise money for food for him and Sammy. Their dad hadn't been the most attentive, and Dean could never go to Bobby for help. After they were more financially stable, he had stopped. For a while anyways. 

But all that really boiled down, Dean was confident in his ability to deceive, manipulate, and fool. It had even said so on the coffee cup he got from the office. 

So how was it that every time he saw Castiel, his mind practically turned to mush? He could barely think straight. Castiel was a murderer. Castiel had killed. Castiel was going to kill _him_. 

For his own sake, Dean hoped it would happen soon, the suspense was nearly killing him.

***

It took three more days. Three more days of silent glances, church services, and charity banquets. It wasn't a subtle invitation. It wasn't much of a suggestion at all, really. It was more of a fact. Instead of asking, it was a universal truth. Dean Winchester was going over to the pastor's house Friday night for dinner. 

How could he say no?

 

***  
Cas's house at one point was nice. Calm. Simple. But through the window of the Impala, the simple suburban house had never looked more ominous than now. Dean swallowed, running a hand through his hair, cursing as he messed up the styling gel he definitely hadn't spent an hour on. Because that would have been girly. 

Taking another deep breath, he pushed the car door open and climbed out into the brisk night. Moving around to the trunk, he gave a quick glance around, before revealing the contents. Dean rummaged through the daggers and guns and darts, his hand finding the plastic bag he was looking for

So an assassin and a pie walk up to the house of God.  
Hell, it sounded like the start of a bad joke, with the punchline being 'Sodomy'. But what else were you supposed to bring? He knew that other people in this god-forsaken town would bring casseroles, or fruitcakes, or whatever other shit church-goers did with their free time. But it wasn't like Dean was a smiling PTA associate, and his hotel room didn't come with a damned crock pot. 

Cas was at the front door before Dean could even knock, a small smile adorning the preacher's face.  
"Dean, so lovely you could make it. Come on in, dinner's just about ready." 

Dean smiled politely in return, and entered the house. He somewhat unceremoniously shoved the plastic bag into Cas's hands.  
"Pie."  
Of course it was pie, Cas could probably see that just fine. But Dean didn't have time to berate himself, as he caught a flicker of something flash across his host's eyes. Suspicion? Doubt? Appreciation? It all looked the same to him at this point.

Whatever the emotion was, Cas politely thanked him, before offering to take Dean's jacket, before disappearing into the kitchen.

***

Cas had a lovely home. The fire was cozy, the paintings homely, and Dean's drink was probably poisoned. Everything was, as the church would put it, just nifty. 

Every muscle in Dean's body was permanently tense, but he managed to force out a smile as Cas finished dishing up the meal. So far the evening had not been good. Small talk and awkward silence and reigned, each of their dispositions slightly fake and trying. By now, the hair on the back of Dean's neck was raised, and his face hurt from grinning. 

"Shall we pray?" Cas suggested, and Dean felt his blood run cold.  
"Of course." Dean replied, trying his very best to stay cheerful. He didn't break eye contact with the man. They stayed there for a few moments, daring each other to be the first one to close their eyes, before Cas clasped his hand together, and Dean had to reluctantly lower his head as well. 

"Dear heavenly father we do thank..."  
Castiel's words were lost on the agent as Dean tried his very best to hear if anything was going on. Was that rustling? He couldn't be-yes. Cas was moving. 

Dean's eyes flashed open just as the prayer was finished.  
"Just an itchy head, that's all." Indeed, his hand was coming down from his hairline. The words, however, had undercurrents of venom in them. Or was that just Dean imagining things?

***

"So, Castiel, how long have you lived here?"  
"Nine months."  
That was right, or it matched up with what was on Dean's files.  
"Oh, rather new then?" He tried to keep his tone conversational. Cas made a noise of confirmation.  
"Yes, what about yourself Dean?" Cas's eyes flicked up from the dinner to meet his. "You've never said what it is you do." 

It took Dean only seconds to reply, his answer automatic. "I'm a mechanic." 

Cas didn't seem pleased with this answer, but he didn't mention it.  
"Is everything alright?" There again was bitingly polite tone. "You've barely touched your soup." 

Wonderful. 

Dean, who had been stirring said offending soup with his spoon for the past half hour, just smiled in response, lifting the spoon to his lips. 

He contained the shuddering breath as he discreetly inhaled. He couldn't detect anything. That was almost worse. How well could he have hidden something?

The soup met his tongue, and he carefully gauged Cas's reaction. Blase, bland. Nothing. He swallowed, before giving another small, formal smile. 

"You'll have to give me the recipe sometime."  
"I'll e-mail it to you."

It amazed Dean how much aggression could be fit into small talk.

***

"I'll go get us that pie."  
Dean didn't let Cas respond, sweeping out of his seat to the kitchen.

He didn't realize how much his heart was pounding until he was out of sight. He didn't have much time. 

Flipping open cupboards, drawers, he looked for anything. Under the sink was rat poison and a variety of toxic cleaning products, but nothing abnormal. Nothing incriminating. He found the soup pot, pushing aside bags of potatoes to get a look at the ingredients. No, no, no. And then he saw them. Jars of unlabeled spices. To take a phrase from Bobby, balls. 

Oh, God. Bobby. What would that phonecall be like? 'Hey Bobby, no time to explain, I think I swallowed about a tablespoon of poison, but I have no idea what type, you gotta help me find a cure'. 

Or then again, maybe there wasn't poison in the soup. 

Just a normal, apple-pie dinner.

***

"Here you go, I hope you like cherry?"  
Dean handed Cas a plate, imitating the priest's aggressively polite smile. Cas smiled back, looking somewhat less enthusiastic than before.

"Oh Dean, while you're up, I think I may have some ice cream in the freezer. Would you mind checking?" 

By the time Dean was back, Cas's plate was empty, and the small potted plant smelled vaguely of cherry. Lovely.

"Couldn't find any. Would you like another slice?"  
"What a shame. No, I'm quite full, thank you though." 

***

Dean watched intently as Cas rounded the corner for the last time, their dishes in hand. Dean was on his feet in seconds, running around to the room opposite the kitchen, ducking behind a couch. His hands somewhat sloppily withdrew a semi-automatic from his boot. God, his hand was shaking. Get a grip Winchester. 

He heard Cas leave the kitchen, footsteps stopping in the empty living room. 

"Dean?" 

Dean moved from behind the couch of the living room, darting to a little alcove behind the wall leading to the stairs. There, his back was to a wall. He just needed Cas to walk by, and then...

And then what? Dean didn't know, Dean couldn't know. He was just so confused, and everything was happening so quickly, and this was his _Cas_ he was talking about here. The gorgeous and sweet and nice and fucking gorgeous priest of a small town. How the hell was this supposed to work? Dean had been walking on ice this entire time, and for what? Maybe this was as innocent an evening as it usually would be with anyone else and-

He needed to focus. He really, really needed to focus. He could hear footsteps closing in on where he was. His hand tightening around his firearm, he tried to regulate his breathing while he steadied his grip. His pulse lowering, albeit only by a little bit, he moved his feet and swung out of his hiding spot, his arm outstretched, ready and-

*click*

***

The sound of a gun being loaded was different with each type. A revolver was different than a semi-automatic, and a semi-automatic was different than a shoulder fire arm. Everything was unique, depending on the caliber or size or ridging. 

And all of that knowledge fled him when he heard the sound of a cartridge sliding into a gun. He heard the sound before anything. Before he had even finished moving. His hand was coming down and then suddenly his gaze was staring down the barrel of a handgun. 

"Well this is a predicament, hmm?" 

Cas was pointing a gun at him. He was pointing a gun at Cas. He was having a faceoff with a man still dressed in his collared shirt from Church. 

Yeah, Dean was going to Hell. But the thing was, Cas...Castiel...wasn't even a real priest was he?  
No, obviously not.

"I don't want to have to do anything rash, Dean. Put the gun down." 

Damn it his voice was so convincing. Dean really wanted to. It would be so easy to just set down the weapon.

His grip tightened even more, his eyes furrowing.

"Dean, let's be civil about this, shall we? Put the gun down." 

And as a sign of good faith, Castiel dropped his gun as well.

Dean watched the weapon skid across the floor, out of reach. 

"We're all friends here, right Dean? No need for violence-"

And Dean dropped the gun. 

***

Out of all the foolish things he had done, this was it. He had the opportunity for this to be over. He could have finished this whole thing. But no, he couldn't do it. Dean fucking Winchester couldn't do it. 

And now two assassins faced each other in a house attached to a church. And for the first time that night, Dean prayed that if this entire thing _was_ a joke, the punchline would be sodomy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go. Part two, as requested by a few of you guys. I wasn't planning to write a direct sequel to the first one, but here I am. So instead as adding it to the series, I created a second chapter. Thanks so much for reading, and extra thanks for those of you who reviewed. I love you guys a lot, it really makes an writer's day. I'm planning on doing one more part to this little fic, and then I might do more in the series, depending. So review! Give feedback! It always helps. If you want to find my blog, I'm namelessnerd.tumblr.com.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Series Of Events Known As The Resolution.

It had taken Dean sixty seconds to gauge the situation. Simply because weapons weren't visible, didn't mean that they didn't exist. A clock, sturdy oak, on the mantle; a ceramic cross on the wall, probably homemade; thick woolen socks which could hide any number of blades; and bare hands, which were deadly in literally hundreds of ways. Dean wasn't concerned with the weapons. Weapons were easy. Weapons were normal. Dean was concerned with his voice, and the lack thereof. 

***

It had taken Dean forty-five seconds to begin talking. To find his voice, and to coax words out. Perhaps it had taken longer to make those words coherent. But coherent wasn't a priority. His throat felt like it was on fire, and for the second time that night, Dean seriously considered the idea that he had been poisoned. 

He should have taken the threat. Dean hadn't seen any of this coming, and being blindsided was a new and challenging experience. While Cas--Castiel---Novak, damn it,------ hadn't directly threatened him, Dean should have taken the threat as it was. Verbal threats weren't necessary. Castiel _was_ the threat. 

***

It had taken thirty seconds for Novak to sufficiently end any comments Dean had to offer. Speaking seemed like such an effort, that Dean almost felt relieved not to have to even try. The weight, the burden, was removed. Castiel wasn't asking questions, he was stating them like facts.

"Dean Winchester. Age: twenty seven. Address.." 

Dean didn't hear it. Or if he did, he didn't process it. The gravely voice of the sermons made his name sound like a blessing. For once, Dean felt like the angel, not the demon. It was ironic, really. Dean couldn't tell if the man behind the voice was Jesus or Satan. Dean wasn't a religious man, but in that moment, he would have confessed to sins uncountable, if only to prolong the voice, and distract from the inevitable ending. If Dean had been emotional he would have cried. But he wasn't an emotional man. He briefly considered the notion that he was welcoming death. Death wouldn't be so bad, he thought to himself. After all, nothing that bad would have such beautiful eyes. 

***

It had taken twenty-eight seconds for Castiel Novak to puncture every defense Dean had in place. Every emotional barrier. It was like being deconstructed on a platter. His life was brought down to numbers, words, and figures. He wasn't Dean Winchester, he was target 45332. He was broken. His time was up.

***

It had taken ten seconds for Castiel to decide to save Dean Winchester. From the stone-cold glint of determination in Dean's eyes, to the cherry pie now cold in the dining room. It had taken much longer for Dean to realize that decision had been made. Seconds turned to minutes, which seemed to turn to hours in Dean's mind. Deconstructed, reconstructed. Words didn't have to be spoken by either parties. 

Reconstruction wasn't a conscious act. There wasn't a god or an angel piecing Dean back together again. There was, in that moment, only Castiel. Only Dean. And only a mutual promise of peace. The proverbial white flag. Words were irrelevant. The minute details were crucial. Castiel flicked his eyes toward the ground, and Dean shuffled his hands into his pockets. There was the awkward atmosphere akin to a middle school dance, the sudden wish that one could simply disappear or evaporate into the night. Too bad humans couldn't disappear. 

Too bad they were only human.

***

It had taken five seconds for Castiel to begin to laugh. A deep, throaty sound, that echoed through the halls. It wasn't full, or jovial in any way. If anything, Dean could have described it as dismal. A funeral dirge, bitter, tinged with unheard emotion. The laughter spread between the two of them. Two men who had been face to face with death. Two men who were death. And two men who were so confused, that the only possible solution was to laugh. Because laughter was an escape.

***

It had taken Dean, from that point in time, only one second to realize that he wouldn't have answers. That life was a bitch. That life was full of cop-outs. That Dean didn't have someone to write to angrily about the many plot-twists and bad endings his stories got. It took one second for him to realize that answers weren't important, and that he would get them in time. In time, he would come to understand everything, and nothing. He would be able to recite every single lyric of Castiel's girly poems. He would know the names of each church goer in the god-damn town. He would learn how to retire from being a mechanic. And he would discover how to choose names for grey, one-eyed kittens.

He wouldn't understand exactly how everything came to work, or how he had gotten there. He would only understand himself, Castiel, and the proper techniques for Apple pie suited for the best of the church bakesales. 

Because those were the things that counted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here. I know, before you say it, I know. There's not an ending. And quite honestly, that is simply because I never meant to have one. I started this as a way to play around with developing characters in the real world that echoed fictional situations. This isn't a crime procedural, it's a writer's sketchpad. 
> 
> I wasn't going to tag an ending on this (I wrote it years ago), but I saw the 2/3 one day when I logged in, and I felt compelled. If you don't like the ending, I encourage you to write your own. I would love to read them. 
> 
> So, thanks for following these ramblings. It's been a while, but It's been fun.


End file.
